


Stress Cardiomyopathy

by CrystallineInk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drugs, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Pre-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:25:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystallineInk/pseuds/CrystallineInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a physiological side to that figurative chest pain after all. Did you know that? It's called stress cardiomyopathy, caused by acute emotional distress. It's what causes old married couples to die within hours of each other. Broken Heart Syndrome, as it's recently been coined. At least there's something I can call it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Cardiomyopathy

**Author's Note:**

> Been having a rough week and it all needed to come out. Angst galore.
> 
> Unbeta'd, un-britpicked, all mistakes are mine.

One month.

It's been one month since I've seen you.

It gets harder and harder every day to think about you and not feel my chest ache.

I've done some research on the topic. Been trying to find out what causes that sinking feeling in my chest. On my own laptop, of course, yours isn't here for me to confiscate.

There's a physiological side to that figurative chest pain after all. Did you know that? It's called stress cardiomyopathy, caused by acute emotional distress. It's what causes old married couples to die within hours of each other. Broken Heart Syndrome, as it's recently been coined. At least there's something I can call it now.

Don't you think it's fittingly ironic that emotions, the very thing I detest above all human functionality, have driven me back to drugs? I know I do.

Oh yes, I've been shooting up lately. Heroin, more often than not. Wasn't my favourite choice of drug before I met you, but it does _wonders_ for numbing the pain now that I know what I'm missing.

You know that feeling you get when you lay in bed after a really long sleep and you can feel your heartbeat all over your body? From your chest to your arms to the very tips of your toes, you feel your sleep-slow pulse as you lay there, unmoving and surrounded by warmth under your covers. You forget your troubles for a while longer and continue to drift on a cloud of bliss, wanting to chase away any trace of your anxieties of the day. That refusal that anything is wrong, that feeling of life going by much too fast than should be possible, that feeling of your slow and steady heartbeat involuntarily pumping your blood through your body.

That's what it feels like when I think about you when I'm high. That's been just what I needed after all.

I lied, actually. _You_ are actually what I have needed this last month. But I can't have you, can I? Not with you off being married to the woman you met while I was away. While I was dead. So I turn to drugs as an alternative. It mostly helps until I sober up and remember everything clearly again.

Did you ever feel this way after I left, I wonder? This feeling of emptiness, of sorrow, perhaps despair? Of course I hope so. Fickle emotions and the need for validation often have selfish intent. My heart sinks when I think of how you grieved for me. I can only hope you grieved the same way I do for you now.

I do not deserve any of your forgiveness. Yet you have proven loyal to me time and time again. Absolutely astounding. I have abused our friendship— _your_ friendship—and have manipulated you so often, and still you consider me your best friend. I truly am amazed at your stupidly blind fealty to me. You should not trust me. You know how I am.

And yet, and yet.

At the same time, I detest just how _vulnerable_ you've made me. How much you've made me care. How much you've made me _love_ you.

Seeing you off being married for a month with not so much as a backward glance my way hurts me more than the two years of running and torture I endured while trying to keep you safe. That was only physical pain. My body could heal itself and, in the process, grow stronger. Simple biology.

This, however. This leaves darker bruises and lasting scars than any knife or kick to the abdomen than I've experienced. This is a new feeling. It's terrifying, frankly, and you're not here to tell me how to navigate it.

The drugs aren't helping as much as they did a few weeks ago. My body has built up a resistance again. I suppose the old habits of a junkie are never truly forgotten from both mind and body. I fear that too much longer will compel me into overdose.

Isn't that an interesting concept? I've never _feared_ overdose before I met you.

Look at what you've done to me. What I've done to you. How can you possibly keep yourself away from me? We've been on the same path for so long. How is it that you've separated yourself so cleanly while I lie here waiting out the effects of the opiates? How do you do it? Tell me your secrets so I can move on, also. I'll keep the kettle on.

Two years was too long.

Now one month is unbearable.

I miss you, John. Please come back. It's no longer home without you.

  


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_Are you sure you want to discard without saving a draft?_

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_Message deleted._


End file.
